Apocalypse
by chibiness87
Summary: The end of the world was never supposed to feel like this. Mulder introspective, set s11x05 Ghouli. Spoilers.


**Apocalypse** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating** : T  
 **Spoilers** : 11x05 Ghouli  
 **Disclaimer** : not mine

 **Summary** : The end of the world was never supposed to feel like this.

* * *

He has never wanted to be more wrong in all his life.

Years spent searching for the Truth, hoping against hope that this time, this time he'll get the proof that he needs to show the world that _insert monster of the week_ exists, or that _insert woman of the month_ is in fact his missing sister.

It has taken him years to come to terms with the fact that his sister is never coming home.

He almost lost himself in the years that followed.

He did lose Scully.

And now, he is on the brink of losing a son he never got the chance to know, and while he knows that is his fault, he can't help blame _Them_ too.

For all of it.

He's quite sure he's making a small trench in the floor; at the very least he's wearing out the soles of his shoes. But he can't stop pacing. Up and down, up and down, to the wall and then back to the door.

He's been at it for hours. Days. Forever.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting for Samantha to come home.

Waiting for the Truth to come forth.

Waiting for the world to end.

(It was never supposed to end like this.)

"Excuse me? Sir?" The new voice, shy and hesitant, pulls him from his thoughts, and he spins on the spot. The woman standing in the door has a file in her hand, and suddenly it feels like there is no air to breath.

"A match?" His voice comes out tight, hollow.

Her head is nodding before she speaks. "Yes, sir. 7 alleles in common. Immediate family member. Female line. Mother or a sister." She pauses, nods towards the door. "Do you want me to inform your partner?"

"No." The word is barked. Short and sharp, but he can't help it. Biting back the howl that he can feel building, Mulder nods towards the file. "You're sure?"

The file is extended towards him, but he cannot take it. Cannot take the proof of his son, Christ, _his son_ 's, death. After a moment, the offer is retracted, and he sees the woman, doctor or nurse or lab tech (does it even matter any more) nod. "Ran it twice. Just like you asked."

"Ok." From somewhere he manages to fake a twitch of his lips. "Thanks."

She nods, leaves him alone.

His fist hits the wall before he even registers the thought, a deep, howling pit of agony threatening to overwhelm him. He needs to tell Scully, of that he is sure. He cannot have the words of failure, of _his_ failure, to come from anyone else.

He owes her that much.

But Jesus, how is he supposed to tell her? How is supposed to tell her that they were too late. That her son, their child, has gone? How can he look her in the eye ever again?

Finding a sink, he splashes cold water over his face and hands, ignoring the ache in his knuckles. He deserves this pain. He deserves all the pain the world can think to throw at him. Barbs and bullets and having people drill into his head; he'll take it all. Because nothing, nothing compares to the sheer agony he is feeling. Nothing compares to the anguish he knows he's about to bestow the one person who was always there for him. Always.

Bracing himself against the porcelain, he bows his head, begging for strength from somewhere. Sucking in a deep breath, he raises his head, grits his jaw.

He needs to find Scully, needs to tell her before some other well-meaning person tells her a truth they don't understand.

Feet shuffling down the hall, it takes him a minute to spot her, half propping herself against the seats in the waiting area. A doctor is there, bullish and interrogating, and he needs to get her away from him. Needs to get her to a place where he can take her in his arms and break her heart.

But before he can do that, her eyes seek and meet his, and he doesn't know how else to say it. "It's bad news," he starts, feeling a catch in his throat.

But before he can say anything else, Scully is there, and there is hope and light in her eyes and in her voice, and Jackson is missing. His son is _missing_ , and suddenly the weight he has felt on his shoulders since he first walked in to that room and saw the boy he knew immediately to be theirs lying in a pool of blood disappears.

William, Jackson, his _son_ is still alive.

He has never been so happy to be more right in all his life.

* * *

End

Thoughts?


End file.
